


In these fragile days of men

by crayyyonn



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, NOT fix-it, Offscreen character death, Phil stays dead, Post battle of new york, stuff i wrote on tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 02:25:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1671236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crayyyonn/pseuds/crayyyonn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint grieves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In these fragile days of men

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Joshua Kadison's Fragile Days

They bury Phil on a Tuesday.

All of the Avengers are there, as well as nearly half of SHIELD. It’s more than a little crowded but the weather is gorgeous, morning sun gently warm in a dazzling expanse of blue. There is breeze and there is birdsong, peaceful and uplifting as they throw their flowers into the hole in the ground, along with handfuls of dirt.

Steve’s eulogy is short and beautiful. 

On Wednesday, Clint packs up Phil’s office. It takes longer than he expected, and he feels vaguely guilty as he opens drawers and sifts through them. Natasha pokes her head in when he’s halfway through, so Clint waves a bottle of Scotch he finds in the bottom drawer at her, brow arched in question. 

She shakes her head and Clint shrugs, nestling the bottle carefully in a half-filled box. He watches, bemused, as Natasha lowers herself onto the couch and settles in, watchful. Clint resumes his packing. 

When he looks up, Natasha is gone, but she reappears by the time he’s moving the boxes to his car. She helps him with a couple, then climbs into the passenger seat and buckles up, curling her feet under her as Clint turns the key in the ignition to start the car. 

They’re not inclined to speak on the drive so Clint turns up the stereo. The station is playing big band jazz like it always does. He doesn’t realize he’s clenching his fists on the wheel, but he’s grateful when Natasha reaches out to fiddle with the knob, flicking past three pre-programmed stations before settling for a cacophony of wailing guitars and crashing beats Clint recognizes.

Axl Rose screams like a cat in boiling water the way Clint’s always wanted to.

He pulls into the garage and turns off the engine, reveling in the silence before it’s broken by Lucky, who barrels out to greet them, barking happily as she tries to cover them in slobber. Natasha helps with unloading the boxes from the car, bringing them into the living room, then pats Clint on the shoulder, giving him a firm squeeze. He kisses her on the cheek in return and watches as she slips under the garage door, disappearing into the darkness.

The Scotch is nearly half full. Clint finishes it. 

Steve shows up on Saturday, Tony and Pepper not far behind. They look slightly surprised to see Clint, who ushers them into the living room and presses hurriedly steeped tea into their hands, surreptitiously kicking empty bottles under the couch. Pepper bends to scratch Lucky behind the ears and she whines, happy and carefree.

"Tony mentioned a cellist," Steve says awkwardly. He holds out a package wrapped in brown paper to Clint. "I thought," he pauses, then continues, "She should have this, or his family."

Clint takes the package and tears it open. It’s Phil’s trading cards, brand new and unstained, wrapped in protective plastic. All of them are signed ‘To Phil, from Steve Rogers’ and dated accordingly. Clint traces the loops and whorls in the signature with his eyes.

He nods. “I-” His voice comes out in a croak, hoarse from a combination of disuse and the burn of alcohol. ‘Thanks,’ he mouths. He swallows the surge of bitterness that wells up his throat, threatening to choke him. As though sensing it, Lucky trots up to him, nuzzling her head into the back of his knee.

Tony clears his throat, pushing his shades up his nose. “Well then,” he says with a brief flash of a grin. He’s impeccably dressed, public face firmly entrenched, but Clint spots a tiny smudge of black grease on the crook of his elbow and the illusion breaks apart.

They leave and Clint resumes his sprawl on the couch, face and fingers buried in Lucky’s soft fur. The cards lie face down on the coffee table. 

Sunday is traditionally a day of rest, so Clint spends it in a flurry of cleaning. The hum of the vacuum is oddly soothing. He separates Phil’s clothes into piles for Goodwill, then pulls out a maroon-colored sweater that is unraveling at the collar and cuffs. He looks at it for a few seconds before stuffing it back into the closet. 

After a moment’s hesitation, he picks out Phil’s ties from the pile, too. Phil had spent his entire adult life collecting them; he’d kill Clint if he knew they’d been given away.

Clint doesn’t dwell too much on that thought.

There’s a call to assemble on Monday night. Doombots, nothing major. Clint looses arrow after arrow, then takes a running leap off the building when his quiver finally empties. Iron Man is too far out but Hulk snatches him in midair before dropping him none-too-gently onto the ground, the impact jarring Clint’s already tender ribs.

Voices are swearing colorfully in his ear. He tugs off the communicator and tosses it. It hits the side of a building with a satisfying clack.

Later during the debrief, Clint gets chewed out by Sitwell and Cap, and even Fury, who threatens to take him off the team before cutting him loose with a glare as he walks out. Natasha is waiting outside. Silently, she walks him back to his quarters on base.

They sit on the bed for a long time, shoulders touching, Clint turning Phil’s dog tags over and over in his hands. 

"I can’t do this," he finally says, matter-of-fact. 

Natasha’s head comes to rest on his shoulder, one arm comfortingly snug around his waist. Her hair tickles his neck. She doesn’t say anything.

It’s with relief when he feels the burn of tears sliding down his cheeks. 

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this two years ago after I saw the movie. Phil was very much dead then, who knew we'd be here two years later with a hale and (mostly) whole AC/DC? ;_;


End file.
